Tuesday, December 27, 2011

Wednesday, December 7, 2011

I went to the gym today (19 days ‘til a size 2…almost there!), and SURPRISE! Disaster ensued. I am going to Sears to purchase a Shake Weight, a Thigh Master, and a Hula Chair so that I can pursue my fitness goals in the privacy of my own home while watching my favorite movie of all time, Con Air, on a loop. Today’s disaster is the indirect result of my cheapness and cowardice.

When I entered the gym today, I was greeted by a sea of greasy, overly tanned, midget gorilla-juiceheads, as my fellow Long Islander Jenni “J-Woww” Farley would call them. I can tell you that their mid-sections and lats (yup, I know what a lat is-I might not have them, but I know what they are) were tanned as well, because they were all wearing those pointless manks that are torn from their arm-pits down to about two inches from the hem. Why? Seriously, why would you do that to your shirt? I’m sure Mr. Hardy did not intend for his sparkly, purple tiger to be torn in half and decapitated. Remind me to go into how I believe that Ed Hardy is just a pseudonym for an older, pissed off Lisa Frank. Ed Tiger. Lisa tiger.

Anyway, I was standing there, wondering why these guys were working out in aprons, when I realized that only about 13% of them were actually doing anything. In each little pod, there were about six “bros” standing around one guy who looked like he was having a seizure while lifting a 20-pound dumbbell. Uh-oh! Someone hasn’t been drinking their Ron-Ron juice! Tsk, tsk. WAIT A MINUTE! Why weren’t any of these people at work!? It was 2:13pm, how is every gross male in a 10-mile radius available for a leisurely, mid-afternoon lift? I might not know much about “conventional jobs”, but I am sure that no lunch break is at 2:13pm. And you all didn’t just get home from the night shift at the gas station, either. Yes, I was at the gym at 2:13pm, but that is neither here nor there. My job is being a house-daughter, and like every good house-daughter, I have to look good.

Because all of these creatures were loitering around the machines like they were tailgating at a Mets game (HA, the Mets), I decided to go into the nice, dark theater room to do my cardio. Usually, I get lucky and a nice Adam Sandler movie from the 90’s or early aughts is playing, but noooo. I walk in and see Angie’s big-ass, bony head wearing a wig that looks worse than mine. Great. Salt. Some CIA, espionage, government shit. I don’t understand that mess when I am fully minded and focused, and you want me to try to follow that story while I am deliriously trying to not fall off of a treadmill? GIMME SOME NEVER BEEN KISSED UP IN THIS BITCH! Whatever, that’s why I had my headphones. I did my thing, got into a groove, and finished my hour. Yesssss. One mile in an hour! I must be butter cuz I’m on a roll. Mmmmm, butter. I stumble off the machine, wipe it down because I’m considerate like that, and I go to walk out of the theater and who is right there? “Jen” the trainer! Gadzoinks!

Okay, so I finished my training sessions with “Jen” and decided not to renew them. When we were working together, she would show me what to do once, and then just stand there blabbing about her boyfriend issues, her Rav 4 issues (the issue being that she owns a Rav 4, I'm assuming), and her other dumb Commack issues. Ugh, I wish more of you readers lived on Long Island so that you would know why Commack is never worth talking about. Have you BEEN to that movie theater? I’m pretty sure I saw a 6-year-old stab an 8 year-old in the parking lot after Ratatouille. Back to “Jen”. We would do the same exact exercises every time, so I decided I didn’t need to keep paying her $75 an hour. Do you know how many Pizza Hut stuffed crust piz…- er, I mean salads I could buy with $75? I didn’t really do anything wrong by not renewing our sessions, but I still felt guilty. Why was she there, anyway? She told me that she’s done with all of her sessions by noon every Tuesday. I remember because she told me that right after she told me about how she went to an auto-show in the mall parking lot that weekend and her boyfriend got drunk and dumped beer on a car and got them kicked out.

My solution was to hide out in the theater room until she left. The 90 year-old she was working with didn’t seem like she had much more in her. Just like the time I decided it was a good idea to fake a sprained pinky in high school so I could go see Joh* Th* Traine* (letters are missing for discretion) in the training room, I was wrong. That old bat was powerlifting like a fucking champ. She could have showed those mank wearers a thing or two. AN HOUR AND 31 MINUTES LATER, “Jen” finally left. What’s the only thing worse than watching and not understanding a thing in Salt once? Watching and not understanding a thing in Salt twice. By the time I was done working out, I really thought I was gonna die. Two+ hours of cardio? Do I LOOK Ethiopian? The gym had still not cleared out, and the path to the parking lot was packed, so I decided to take a breather in the bathroom. Let a girl wheeze in private. I went into a stall, huffing and puffing like I was a Catholic school girl giving birth to her secret baby in the toilet before scampering off to algebra. After I began a normal breathing regimen, I went to leave, and the lock wouldn’t turn. Strange. I knew I was a tad weak, but come on. I try it again, and the lock would not turn! I try some more, and realize this thing isn’t budging. No one was around, and I even tried to call the front desk from my cell, but I had no service. AT+T, you dumb bitch. I only had one solution. Shimmy my sweaty ass under the door.

I have never been good at estimating sizes or distances or anything like that, but I thought I could SURELY fit under the door with ease. Just like the time I decided it was a good idea to “fall” and fake a sprained ankle to get the attention of a guy walking by (C-Brad, I love you!), I was wrong. Have you ever seen those fishing shows where someone catches a huge swordfish and it flops around on deck like its on a mission? Remember in Jaws when Bruce (the name of the shark, duh) gets stuck in the boat and thrashes it around like it is a piece of paper? Yeah, you know where I’m going with this. After about 23 seconds, WHICH IS A LONG TIME TO BE WEDGED UNDER A DOOR LIKE A HUMAN DOOR STOP, I was thinking about typing a goodbye note on my iPhone for my family to read after they found my lifeless body stuck under a bathroom stall door. But like the guy who cut off his arm when he was stuck in the rocks, I didn’t give up. I did one more wiggle, and I was out. Free at last, free at last.

I wish that I could tell you all that this whole experience was rare, and that this was NOT a normal day in my life, but I love you all too much to lie. Tomorrow, I think I might just do some jumping jacks in my living room.

Wednesday, November 16, 2011

Think back to the year 1997 when you and all your little power-bead wearing friends were going to see Titanic in the theater for the 4th time. One of the scenes in the movie that always stands out to people is the one where Kate Winslet is lying in the middle of the ocean on a door or some shit. She is blankly starting at the beautiful night sky, completely numb to everything around her. She has gone through a truly horrific event and she is still in danger, but she seems so defeated and traumatized that she has no fight left in her (this is before she starts to spastically blow that whistle). She is dazed and can only muster enough energy to sing a whimper of some creepy, child killer in a horror movie type song. THAT IS WHAT I AM GOING THROUGH RIGHT NOW, EXCEPT TO THE 11TH POWER. I am lying on a proverbial door in the middle of the ocean. Rose DeWitt Bukater hit an iceberg, well guess what? I hit a damn glacier. Stop complaining and start swimming. The reason for my current near-catatonic state is because of a chance encounter with The Detox Diva.

Last week, I was at the gym with Jen, my trainer, when some woman with a bunch of pamphlets walks in and begins talking to all the old women and Guido wannabees (the only people who go to my gym…its retro fitness…nuff said) who walk into the gym. Oh, by the way, I don’t know if Jen is my trainer’s actual name. We’ve been working together for a few weeks, and I didn’t really catch it the first time we were introduced. I don’t have any contracts or anything with her name on it, and she doesn’t wear a nametag, so I just went with Jen. I’ve thought about asking her what it is, but seeing as that we have spent roughly 17 hours one on one together in the last month, that might be a little weird. What I sometimes do in that situation is say, “Oh, how do you spell your name? I’ve heard it spelled differently a bunch”, but the last time I did that, this guy replied, “B-O-B”…But I digress. So on my way out, I stop to chat with this lady, the Detox Diva. I usually never fraternize with these types of salespeople, but I figured I had to stall time anyway because I couldn’t drive yet due to a lack of muscle control. “Jen” thinks it’s a fun game to make me bench press 400 pounds for 25 minutes at a time. Basically, this lady promotes a body detox that can last from 3 days to 3 months that’s supposed to cleanse your entire body from harmful toxins. One of the main reasons I decided to give it a whirl was because this detox aids weight loss and I had just seen a picture of Blake Lively and I decided that I was gonna be a size 2 by Christmas. Of 2011. Oh, and for all you men-folk who may not be familiar with female dress sizes, I’m only about a size away from that.

So on this detox, I can only eat raw fruits and vegetables. The fruit thing is no problem, but the veggies are a different story. Um, I will eat lettuce and carrots. Not even real carrots, but baby carrots. Not even baby carrots, but SHREDDED baby carrots. I have to shred my carrots because I’ve been nursing a pretty ripe cavity for some time, and shockingly, my current job of googling headbands and spying on my neighbors doesn’t have the best insurance plan. My tooth doesn’t bother me too much, as long as I avoid contact with sweet foods, cold foods, hot foods, chewy foods, or hard foods. Otherwise were golden. I figure I can put off the dentist until my teeth start looking like those of an Appalachian toddler who has spent its entire life drinking drinking Mountain Dew out of a baby bottle. Or the other Lindsay from Long Island, that Lohan ho. So, yes. I have to shred my carrots. I hate tomatoes. I used to like cucumbers when I was little, but that was when my mom would cut that jelly shit out of the centers. Once I discovered that cucumbers didn’t naturally come like that, that mess had to go. A) Too much work to de-jelly and B) Its gross. My problem with veggies is that I like eating them, but most of them need to be cooked since I…am not a Neanderthal. So that drastically cuts my options, but I decided to do this non-sense anyway. The Detox Diva warns me of some of the possible symptoms I might experience on my 5-day detox, and I’d like to take a few minutes to tell you about how I’ve been doing with these symptoms.

Hunger- On this detox, I can eat as much raw fruit and veggies as I want, but its key that I eat a lot of leafy greens which is filling and extra helpful for the detox. DD so perkily suggested that I drink a “green monster” every 5 hours while awake. A green monster is a concoction of a handful of spinach, a handful of chard, a stalk of celery, a lemon, an apple, a banana, and berries of my choice “as a treat”.
1. HA. HA. HAHAHA. HA. That’s a cute suggestion, DD.
2. Bitch, don’t you dare try to trick me into thinking I could make this shit doable by tossing in a few raspberries. A strawberry will not make this taste like a strawberry fribble.
3. Everyone knows I’m the world’s pickiest eater, and I do NOT mix foods. I still eat off of a sectioned plate. I wont put a topping on my ice cream because I don’t even get how that would work. I pick the tips off my French fries before eating them. My sister once fed me lasagna with chicken in it, and I almost threw that ho out of her apartment window. It would have been easy, too, because her windows don’t even have screens. #MySisterLivesLikeTheMurdererFromGhost. #SwayzeForever. So you want me to put what and WHAT together? And then you want me to do WHAT with it? No, no, no. Homie don’t play dat. OMG it was so hard for me to type “dat” just now. So instead of a “hearty” green smoothie for breakfast, I instead had this. Oh swell. So lets see what I ate today. An apple. Two grapefruits (why hello, acid reflux and stomach ulcers. So glad you could join the party). A bowl of spinach with some lemon juice and pepper as dressing. I’m not even gonna go into that. A cantaloupe. Whoops, let me repeat that incase you didn’t understand- I had an ENTIRE cantaloupe for dinner. I washed all that down with some anger and bitterness.

Around 8pm, the time I would usually like a little dessert, I went to my freezer, bypassed my impressive ice pop collection which was probably getting freezer burned (mommy misses you!), and pulled out my pathetic little baggie of frozen grapes. DD told me that frozen grapes is a wonderful little treat and I should pretend I’m eating ice-cream bon-bons. DD, have you ever HAD an ice-cream bon-bon? This jiggly ass grape tastes NOTHING like ice cream! Do not patronize me! I am not a fool. Don’t give me a piece of rock candy and tell me it’s a diamond. Shit, do you know what I would do for a piece of rock candy right now? Anyway, this is not Hook. I cannot pretend like I’m dining on some wonderfully/creepily bright colored food, when in reality, its just porridge. I am not Rufio (I wish) and I am not up for this. DD is a rude, crude, lewd, bag of pre-chewed food dude. Ette.

Fatigue- Lets all go back to a magical movie named Sandlot. Remember when Benny “The Jet” Rodriguez got his brand new PF Flyers? Remember when he heard the great bambinos voice telling him that heroes get remembered, but legends never die? Remember when he hopped over the fence to go get the ball and made it back safely? Remember when Hercules hopped over the fence for revenge? Remember how Hercules then chased Benny through the alley? And then through the movie theater? And then through the town picnic? And then under a big cake? And then through the pool where Wendy Peffercorn worked? And then back to the Sandlot where his friends were already waiting because Squints told them about a shortcut? And then Hercules bit Benny’s shirt? And then Benny hopped back over the fence, but when the dog did it, the fence fell on him? Then Benny helped him? Then Hercules licked Benny’s face? Well, as tired as Benny “The Jet” Rodriguez was after pickling the beast for 8 minutes, that’s how tired I was when I walked to my mailbox this afternoon. The lack of a normal diet has made me a weak zombie, and I had to pickle my own beast today. The beast being my sidewalk.

Irritability- A nice way of me telling you all that I have been a major bitch. I now get Sawyer from Lost. He wasn’t really an asshole, that poor man was just hungry! How Hurley didn’t end up killing anyone in a hunger-rage-blackout is besides me. Tonight, Dar-Dar tried to do a nice thing and brought me a pack of gum to “keep my mouth busy”. She tossed it on the couch next to me, and I started my Hulk transformation. I rocketed that pack of Juicy Fruit so hard at her skull while screaming that I couldn’t have sugar. I then LITERALLY started crying. I experienced so many emotions in that moment that I was about to start writing poetry. POETRY. Yuck.

I was driving home today and I knew that a Wendy’s was coming up, and I swear on my Zac Efron pillow that the wheel started turning towards it on its on. I somehow fought the wheel and just looked away and thought about the delicious meal of water and a granny smith waiting for me at home. I was in the right lane, and some fool in a Hyundai crosses 2 lanes of traffic and cuts me off! I don’t know if I have gotten into my road rage in previous blogs, but let me tell you- I have a lot of it. If that weren’t bad enough, he cut me off TO TURN INTO THE WENDYS! Really? You have to go to Wendy’s now? That fucker knew I was detoxing. Salt. In. Wound. And THEN, the light right in front of the Wendy’s turned red! So I had to sit in front of that fucking Wendy’s for 47 fucking seconds, watching that fucking Hyundai in the fucking drive-thru line eat all of MY fucking spicy nuggets. I hope they only gave him 9 instead of 10.

Hallucinations/Weird, Depressing Behavior- This is a true story picture that I drew today while coloring with the little girl I was babysitting.

Those are mozzarella sticks. Breaded, not batter-dipped. Those little green dots are the flecks of seasoning that is often used in the breading of mozzarella sticks. The red puddle is the marinara dipping sauce. That yellow stuff coming out of one of the sticks is the mozzarella cheese that is oozing out of a stick that I had already bitten. And if this picture came to life right now and someone offered me a mozzarella stick with that rancid looking yellow cheese, you can bet your bottom dollar ass that I would eat that shit up. I want to say that it is NEVER okay to draw appetizers. Unless you are an artist being paid by Friendly’s to design their new menu, it is NEVER okay to draw appetizers.

Wednesday, August 10, 2011

If you know me, then you know how I feel about animals. If you are an exotic or wild animal, fine, you’re kinda cool. You can stay. But domestic animals? Gross. If I see you, I’m gonna have to get my Cruella on. Boy, was that woman misunderstood. Anyway, Even though I’m no fan of furry little creatures, I love me some animal movies. Dunston Checks In? Yes, please. Free Willy? Duh. Zeus and Roxanne? I think I’ll watch it twice. One of my other faves is Homeward Bound. For someone who has such a cold heart, I really give my tear ducts a workout during that shit. Can’t someone just help those damn animals get back home!? They’re out there getting assaulted by porcupines and rubbed up on by creepy old men in log cabins. Their journey home was, indeed, an arduous one with so many things standing in their way, BUT it has got NOTHING on my journey home yesterday…

Obstacle #1:
I had been in the DC/Baltimore area for the weekend visiting some of my peeps, and I decided to leave for home at around 11:45 AM for an ETA of 4:30PM. Fabulous. Before I left though, my dear friend and I decide to go to IHOP for breakfast! AWESOME! No, actually. Not awesome. While IHOP falls in my top two places in the universe, I forgot about the state that those damn short stacks put me in. After my pancake sessions, all I wanna do is roll home (literally roll, like log roll) and doze in and out of sleep for the next 4-6 hours while watching Unsolved Mysteries. Pancakes are essentially my Thanksgiving dinner. So after my last bite of pancake, I was ready for some bonding time with Fluffington (my son/pillow), until I realized that I had to spend the next 5 hours driving! Nooo! Anyone have any Jolt or speed I can borrow? Is Jolt even a thing? Are the kids still drinking that?

Obstacle #2:
RAIN. LOTS OF RAIN. Why, Zeus?? Pretty much right after I left, it started to down pour. When I’m driving long distances, I like to put that cruise control on, recline, file the nails a little, open up the People and catch up on some news, but when its raining, I’m forced to pay attention. Damn it to hell. So I spend about two hours trying not to drown on I-95, but then the rain just gets too heavy, so I decide to pull over for a few minutes and hope it lightens up. I stop at the next rest stop, which is the Fenimore Cooper rest area in NJ. Here is why Fenimore Cooper sucks- Roy Rogers. Rather, a LACK of Roy Rogers. The only time I will eat fried chicken is if it’s from RR and that is why I look forward to road trips. The only place to find a RR is at rest stops, and I pick the ONE in all of NJ that doesn’t have one! Crap, crap, crap. So I sat at a table for 10 minutes staring at this lady, and then the rain finally stopped. I also had to leave because Bobbarino was at home waiting for me to get back because I had the EZ pass and he was going to Albany last night. Sure, pops. I’ll rush home in inclement weather so that you can save $6.00 on the Throgs Neck Bridge. I walk out to my car, and there is a blind woman leaning against my car! Who is she and where did she come from? Why did she decide to rest herself upon my vehicle? I obviously have nothing against blind people, but my last two interactions with them led to me getting physically abused. Thaaaaats another blog. So I decided to wait it out. I spent about 45 seconds standing 3 feet away from this woman, facing her, hoping that she would feel my presence and relocate. At around second 46, a man came out carrying an ice cream cone and said, “okay, mom! Lets go!” WHAT?! You abandon your blind mother in a parking lot so you can go get some self-serve? Why is she not allowed inside? And I notice you have one cone in your hand. You didn’t even get a cone for your blind mother? I bet he didn’t even tell her he was getting ice cream. He didn’t want to pay for 2 cones. Grimy.

AND he got sprinkles.

Obstacle #3:
I’m back on the road, inching home, when I notice that I am in an exit only lane, heading to Perth Amboy. What the fuck is a Perth Amboy?? I still had about 100 miles to go until I got home, so I knew I had to get over. I go to merge, and this huge Huggies truck wouldn’t let me over! Not only did he not let me over, he pretty much drove me off the road. As I’m now veering toward this mysterious Perth Amboy, I look over and see those obnoxious Huggies babies on the side of the truck smiling and laughing at me. They were like the baby in Honey, I Blew up the Kid! I could see them thinking, “Have fun in Perth Amboy, bitch! Mwahahahaha.” Dumb babies. So I’m now somewhere in NJ, trying to get back to the highway, when I see a billboard for an outlet center. The picture on the billboard was someone in a Lacoste Shirt with Gucci sun-g’s. It was essentially me, except in a models body. And 25 feet tall. So I’m all like, you dumb babies, IM having the last laugh. As it turns out, they definitely did have the last laugh because I got lost trying to find the outlets and ended up at a meat distribution facility instead. Of course.

Obstacle #4:
Five and a half hours after my departure, I finally make it to the Belt parkway. For you non-New Yorkers, the Belt is a dumb, crowded parkway that goes from BK to LI, and still about an hour away from my house. I’m sitting in my car, and my eyes were getting a little watery. I was listening to Nas’ song “I Can”, and that song always gets me a little misty. So inspirational. So wise. As I’m about to wipe my eyes, I sneeze very hard. So hard, that MY RIGHT CONTACT POPS OUT! It was already lubed up and slippery from my tears, so that sneeze just propelled that sucker out. So to recap, it’s raining so hard my windshield wipers are basically useless, I’m on one on the craziest motorways in NY, and I’m trying not to get hit by the speeding motorist doing 85 on a windy, flooded, 2 lane road. And now, I can’t see out of the right eye. I didn’t see it on my shirt or on the wheel, so I assume it’s on the floor. I try to feel around for it with my toes. Contact, is that you? Oh, no. That’s an advil. Contact, is that you? Oh, no. That’s a braid that fell out of my hair days earlier. Contact, is that you? Oh, no. That’s a sneaker. *Note- I was not wearing sneakers that day. I almost give up and decide to pull over when I look down and see this.

So, at around 7PM, I make it home. I made it through the deadly rain, traffic, blind people, taunting babies, dashed polo shirt dreams, and artificial fruit-flavored seeing aids. Just like Shadow in Homeward Bound when he crawls out of the ditch and limps home to a welcoming family, I inch up my driveway and embrace Dar-Dar, who then tells me she can’t see the TV.

I’m sorry for a lot of things. I’m sorry that mommy’s face is often scary because some days she has eyebrows and some days she doesn’t. I’m sorry that daddy lets you play with balloons, which is highly frowned upon for someone of your age because of safety reasons. I’m sorry that your parents rarely put clothes on you, which is weird because you are like 31 years old now and should be wearing clothes. I’m sorry that the few times you ARE clothed, you are often wearing clothes that would be rejected from Wal-Mart because of poor quality. I’m sorry that your parents make you play with toothbrushes and beef jerky wrapper while Sophia gets a puppy. I’m sorry that while you are wearing crap-ass polyester, that bastard Bintley is living it up like fucking King of Chat-nooga with Kaaahl and Rhon, dirt bikes, cotton tees, and his 4, seemingly financially stable grandparents. I’m sorry that all of your grandparents look like they are from the worst parts of Appalachia. I’m sorry that you are forced to sleep on a mattress on the floor, when we know that mommy can afford a bed since she is pulling in the same salary as her co-worker Farrah, and Sophia has a nice bed, WITH sheets. I’m sorry that mommy uses your bed money on hair gel so that she can pull her thinning hair back super tight so that we can see her scalp. I’m sorry that you found daddy’s condoms and had to have the image of him mounting some poor lady seared into your large head. I’m sorry that while you are cute now, it’s inevitable that that will change in 8-10 years because of genetics. Last but not least, I’m sorry that you are constantly being judged by 24-year-olds who still live in their childhood bedrooms and sleep under their No Doubt and Party of Five posters.

Thursday, March 17, 2011

Technology, specifically the internet, is a sign of modern times and progression in the world. With one press of a button, you can activate nuclear weapons, donate millions to help people in need, or if you are me, you can accidentally order 36 ruby-red grapefruits from Texas, and select the $33 express shipping option. Word of advice: do NOT go to fruit wholesalers websites after downing multiple red-raspberry martinis at The Cheesecake Factory. So if your internet is so fabulous and advanced, Mr. Al Gore, why is my computer stuck in 1952? WHY IS MY PANDORA AND NETFLIX RACIST? Pandora and Netflix will not let me delight in the entertainment of white people, and they feel the need to force the arts of my people on me.

So, like anyone with a pulse, I occasionally like to listen to a little John Mayer when I’m feeling a number of different emotions. “Comfortable” is my break-up song. When I do eventually get a boyfriend and then he breaks up with me because he found my Helga Pataki-esque shrine to Justin Bieber in my closet and doesn’t find it endearing or socially acceptable, I plan on curling up in my Little Mermaid sheets, sipping my Nesquick (my comfort beverage) and playing “Comfortable” on repeat. I digress. So I’m in the car driving to IKEA to purchase everything from a spatula to a Russian baby to a brick of coke. Cocaine comes in bricks right? My drug knowledge stops at the Biebs- he’s my drug of choice. Earlier that day, as I was getting winded walking to my car, I saw a 70 year-old sprinting around my neighborhood like a fucking cheetah, and it made me depressed, so it was time to put on a little J. May. What would one expect on a J. May Pandora station? Some Jason Mraz? A smidge of Ray Lamontagne? A sprinkling of Maroon 5, right? WRONG. What was the first song on my J. May Pandora playlist? PUSSY. MONEY. WEED.

If I had to pick the top three things in this world that I know the least about, they would be pussy, money, and weed. What the fuck, Pandora? Why would you think I wanted to hear this?? We all love a lil’ Lil Wayne. I can relate to him because we have a lot in common. His last name is Carter. I happen to enjoy the film Coach Carter. One of his hit songs was “Lollipop”. I have never been known to turn down a Blow Pop. He has a daughter named Nivea. I use Nivea lotion. As much as I love and appreciate his music, there is a certain time and place for it. I applaud some of his messages, such as his promotion of safe sexual health ("Safe sex is great sex, better wear a latex/ Cuz you don't want that late text, that I think I'm late text"), but I was in more of a mellow, wallow in your self-pity and loneliness type of mood.

So I gave that bitch Pandora the benefit of the doubt and chalked it up to a glitch. I skip to the next song and I don’t get “Waiting for the World to Change.” I get “Straight Outta Compton” by N.W.A. I’m done. I’m fucking done. “Pussy, Money, Weed” was one thing, but with N.W.A., Pandora was REALLY sending me a direct message with this propaganda. Compton? John Mayer is from fucking Fairfield, Connecticut. I get it, Pandora. You are trying to toughen me up. I’m sorry that I like to scrapbook, scour E-Bay for the discontinued pink Burberry Nova Check headband, and go apple picking out east. I apologize. I turned off the Pandora. I didn’t even feel the need to weep to J. May anymore. I needed to vent out my rage, so I put on some Linkin Park. Everyone needs to scream it out sometimes.

A few months ago, I experienced similar prejudices from another popular media company known as Neflix. I have had very few issues with Netflix over the years. I thank them that I can watch every episode of Buffy the Vampire Slayer anytime I want, while reading the Slayers Guide (thank you Dar-Dar and Bobbarino for buying me the guide for X-mas ’98). Because of Netflix, I can play an episode of Law and Order: SVU every night before I go to bed, which always leads to colorful dreams. But like I said, they are not perfect. If you will remember, there was a little gem of a show during the 1999-2001 television seasons known as Popular. That shit was awesome. I moved both seasons to the top of my queue and broke out the butterfly hair clips and power bead bracelets. Two short days later, I ran (I walked) to my mailbox to retrieve the first 3 discs of season one. Season one, disc one= success. Season one, disc three= success. Season one, disc two=FAIL. Instead of episodes 4-7 of Popular, I got The Cosby Show, season 6, disc 3! No. No. No. No. No. No. No.

Everyone loves them some Huxtables (except for the light-skinned one), and I am no exception. Do you know how much I wanted to do that dance with them on the staircase for Cliff’s parents for their anniversary? Do you know how much I wanted to play that prank on a drunk Vanessa and pretend to drink alcohol with her during a drinking game, even though it was only tea? Do you know how much I wanted to live across the street from that little fat kid who never spoke and was terrified of everything? Even though I would trade a set of my own grandparents for Cliff and Claire (sorry, Luby and Fred), I WANTED MY POPULAR! Yes, Netflix, thanks for showing me that blacks can actually have jobs and read and shit, but this is unacceptable. To make matters worse, they send me the season with Raven-Symone playing that little precocious jerk, Olivia! Way to rub salt in the wound. Everyone in America knows that Raven-Symone is in my top 20 list of arch nemeses! Fine, don’t invite me to be a member of the Cheetah Girls, even though I look fabulous in animal print.

Denise went to Africa and picked up a kid while she was there. I’d rather go to Africa and pick up Malaria. What an audacious little know it all. I bet she babysits for Suri and they spend their whole time plotting against me. And it’s not like Popular wasn’t diverse. Hello, there was one black student in the whole school, duh. How many more do we need? It was the WB for crying out loud. Unless it’s the now defunct Friday night line-up of urban sitcoms, you knew what you were getting. Felicity? Gilmore Girls? Dawson’s Creek? Need I go on?

I eventually received disc 2 of Popular in October. A few weeks ago, I changed my membership plan and had to return all the discs I had within 7 days, or I would get charged $14.99 for each one. Every single day, I got e-mails from them harassing me for the disc. Get off my ass, Netflix! I’ve only had the disc for 5 months! Relax! How many people in north-western Suffolk County of Long Island are anxiously waiting for that disc to be available? Don’t make me do a door to door survey. I eventually found the disc. It was behind the toaster. Don’t ask, because I do not have an answer for you.

Thursday, February 3, 2011

May I ask a question? Yes? Okay, then. WHY DON’T THE GODS WANT ME TO HAVE SLURPEES? Yes, the frosty treats found at thousands of 7-11’s around the world. My love for Slurpees is no secret.

One time, I enjoyed a delectable peach Slurpee at a rest stop in Georgia on my way to Ozark, Alabama. I was an adventurous 12-year-old “summering” in Harrison, Maine the first time I tried a lemon-lime Slurpee. Three years ago, I cooled off from the hot, Malaysian sun with a Slurpee. I have no idea what flavor it was because shockingly, I don’t read Malay, but it was hot pink and that shit was awesome. I have always appreciated the fact that for $1.19, I can get a decent sized icy beverage on pretty much every corner. So why, pray tell, are the heavens against me drinking a Slurpee? I’m a huge believer in signs. In first grade when I was the same shoe size as my teacher, Mrs. Goldfarb, I knew that it was a sign that for the rest of my life, I would struggle to find shoes that fit me that weren’t from brands like Love My Comfort or Healthy Style. My first sign that Disney had a personal vendetta against me was when I lost the lead in That’s so Raven to one Ms. Raven-Symone. Bitch stole my career. Um, hello? A portly African-American lass with wonderful singing abilities, an expert sense of comedic timing, and a boatload of sass? Are you KIDDING me? Moving on, THREE events have transpired in the last seven days that have made me realize that something is going on.

INCIDENT NUMBER 1- SNUGGIE DANGER
Tuesday, January 25th. I walk into a 7-11 after my session at the gym. I usually eat a grapefruit after my workouts, but I was out of grapefruits, and my new favorite Slurpee is Snow Fruit. The Snow Fruit slurpee is lemon-lime with a splash of grapefruit flavoring in it. Samesies, right? So, I pump my Snow Fruit slurps (that’s what us regulars call them) all the way to the top. Note: the people who fill the cup and put the lid on WITHOUT then going back and sticking the nozzle in the hole to fill the slurp to the top of the dome are idiots. So, I’m walking to the counter with my slurp, I have my quarters and nickels ready, and then BOOM SMASH SPLAT. I open my eyes to find myself on all fours, with lemon lime with a splash of grapefruit flavoring all over my hands and jeans. I was in such a slurp haze, I wasn’t looking and I tripped over a pyramid of Snuggies. How fucking ironic. My number one favorite thing in the world got in the way of my number two favorite thing in the world. There is something very humbling about looking up to find a homeless man with four teeth staring down and laughing at you as he eats a 7-11 taquito and chugs some Mountain Dew. I apologized to the clerk whose name I know but I’m not going to say because I have a feeling I shouldn’t know the clerks name. I then sulked out of the store, Snow Fruit-free, sticky and wet. The only plus is that even though my jeans got wet, at least I wasn’t wearing my pajama jeans, which I WILL own in the very near future.

INCIDENT NUMBER 2- THE SHARP SHOVEL
Wednesday, January 26th. I hold my head up high as I breeze back in through those doors. I sashay past the hard donuts and stale slices of “pizza”, and get my slurp. I do my thing, top it off, walk successfully to the register, and leave with my slurp in tact. Hot dog. I drive home carefully, not so that I don’t slide on the ice, but so that I don’t spill any snow fruit, and I crawl into bed. I take ONE SIP and then SLASH! The bastard shovel part of the spoon cut my tongue! When I get fancy, I like to scoop some slurp and then drizzle it on my tongue the way ancient Romans (or Greeks…what's the diff?) would tilt their heads back and delight in grapes. Makes me feel classy. It just figured that I got a wonky-ass straw with a freakishly sharp edge. Make no mistake, I finished the slurp. All of it. But I still have an awkward nick on my tongue.

INCIDENT NUMBER 3- BLACK ICE
Saturday, January 29th. I was heading to a family party at my sisters (where I was forced to eat lasagne with chicken in it) and I was told to get some chips and salsa. 7-11 is easier than going into a store, so I sailed into that familiar parking lot. I get the goods and then go get a slurp. Did I really want one? Eh, not really. But I was there, so…duh. I get into my car and start backing out when all of the sudden, BAM SQUEEK CRUNCH. My tires hit a patch of black ice and my car fishtails and crashes into the back of someones car. Yea, I hit a parked car. Mother nature, you’re a dirty whore. I should have sailed off like Halle Berry, but my damn Jiminy Cricket started harassing me. Plus, the owner was sitting in the car and I was in no mood for a Paul Walker high speed chase that night. So she called a few days later and lets me know how much the damage will cost. $450! FOUR HUNDRED AND FIFTY DOLLARS! Do you know how many fucking slurps I could buy with that much money?! And I didn’t even do that much damage to her car.

I’m no mechanic, but there were no dents or anything. Couldn’t they just get a rag and some toothpaste (that’s how I polish my jewelry) and buff that shit out? Im calling x to the z Xzibit. He can help. He always does.

Five days, two slurps, three accidents. I just don’t understand. I ask for very little in this world. My two hours of the Bachelor every Monday (which I’m supposed to be boycotting for political reasons but I don’t because I am weak). A pair of designer sunglasses here and there. The dropping of a new Beiber song every once in a while. Is it too much to ask that I enjoy a $1.19 delight every now and then without tripping over slankets, drawing blood, or getting into and losing a fight with concrete? I just don’t get it. All I know is that if you are listening up there, Zeus, I want to let you and your bastard compadres know that this isn’t over.

Monday, January 10, 2011

I’m just going to pretend like I haven’t sucked the big one at this blog biz for the past 6+ months.

So, a few months ago, I pulled into a Walgreens parking lot in some snazzy workout capris and one of those breathable workout tops from Old Navy (bitch, please- like I can afford Under Armour), feeling great after a pretty impressive 174-minute workout at the gym. I only stayed for so long because The Sound of Music was playing in the gym movie theater and I obviously had to wait till the very end to see if that bastard Rolf would change his mind and not blow his whistle in the abbey to alert his Nazi buddies. He did. He always does. With a pep in my hole-in-the-toe New Balance sneaks, I pass by the $5 flu shot sign on the window. I scoff at the sign, thinking that flu shots are for the weak, and that $5 could get me 24 Italian-ice cups at the Marinos Italian-ice warehouse. TWENTY-FOUR. That’s approximately 5 days worth of Italian-ice. BLUE OR LEMON, PLEASE AND THANK YOU.

And now, here’s another number for you: 58.

Fifty-eight is the amount of dollars my Italian-ice loving ass has spent in the last four days on products that will help rid me of the miserable flu that is currently crippling my soul. Nyquil, Dayquil, Mucinex, Alieve, bottled water, OJ, Ramen, sorbet, hard candies, soup, tea, and endless tissues ain’t cheap. Damn you, summertime stupidity. So yes, I have spent the last few days pretty much unable to move my body. I have been swilling cough syrup like I should have gold and diamond teeth and a hit on HOT 97, and my tongue literally has cuts on it from consuming so many mints and Halls. I am convinced that I belong in the Arkansas wilderness because I was about to pass out dead. Last night was the first time in days I was able to drive a little, and I knew where I had to go. I had to go on a hunt for margarine. Dar-Dar had made cornbread to go with dinner, and I only like margarine on my southern, bread-like treat, NOT butter. And what’s the only spreadable butter-ish topping we have in the house? Fucking butter. The grocery store was too far to drive (approx. 4.5 minutes) and I didn’t wanna push it, so I decided to go with CVS down the street. They sell those stupid-ass Crustables and 10 varieties of flavored milk, so surely they would have my I Can’t Believe its not Butter.

On a day when I’m at 100%, ready to take on the world, I can usually be found in ratty topsiders, some sweats, a tee (or a polo, only if I’m feeling extra sassy), and the messiest messy bun this side of the Jersey Shore. You can only IMAGINE what I look like when I have been knocking on deaths door. I was sporting a rainbow sherbet stained shirt with a bizarre hole right in the nip (think Mean Girls), a stretched out sweatSKIRT (yup, they make ‘em), and my men’s slippers from K-Mart. I’m not even going to go into what my hair and face were doing. The only coats I could find in a 15-foot radius (I got some of my energy back, but no way was I going to walk down the hallway to the coat closet; that would have been simply absurd) were a thin vest, a NorthFace fleece (yeah right, what am I, still in high school? pass) and Dar-Dars knee length, faux-fur coat. Can you guess which one I went with?

If the Olsen twins can walk around with some bullshit homeless-chic style, why can’t I? Or is that look only reserved for 11-pound billionaires? No one has ever owned dirty slippers, ashy legs, a fur coat, and ratty hair the way I did at 7:37 PM on Sunday, January 9th, 2011. I walked into that CVS the way I imagine Naomi Campbell walking into an anger management class- with nothing but swagger and pride. I strut my stuff over to the grocery aisle, past the canned pistachios, vanilla wafers, and salsa, and head to the fridge section. What does this crap-ass fridge have to offer me? One tub of cream cheese, 11 single sticks of butter, expired milk, and half a carton of eggs. WHAT. THE. FUCK. Rite-Aid would NEVER let this shit happen. I can’t even describe my disappointment. You have regular, chocolate, strawberry, banana, MINT, and creamsicle flavored milk, but you only have six eggs? LITERALLY SIX EGGS?? As I stomped away in disgust, I also passed those damn Crustables.

To get back to the front of the store, I had to walk through the diaper/lady product aisle. As I walk past, plotting possible solutions to my cornbread spread dilemma, some 15 year old, pizza-faced shit has the nerve to chuckle under his and mutter “that’s a look”. Okay, Im still so angry that I just now had to take a minute and say my cool down mantra that I learned from Carl Winslow. Three, two, one. One, two, thee. What the heck is bothering me. I stopped in my tracks. Pivoted on the heels of my discounted men’s footwear. Swooshed my fur around like my idol, Cruella DeVil. I was NOT in the mood for this. I was so fuming, all I could say was “what was that?” and he looked me up and down, smiled and said, “nothing ma’am. Have a terrific night.” You stupid shit-head. Right now, even though I feel like I have been tackled by two of my future husbands (Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson and Vin Diesel), I STILL come out here and manage to look like former sitcom stars who went on to make some pretty bomb straight to VHS movies in the nineties and early aughts and then became weird bag ladies. And I look awesome doing it. Do you know what he was doing at that moment? HE WAS STOCKING THE SHELVES WITH GENERIC VAGINAL ITCH MEDICATION. Last time I checked, which was just yesterday, organizing genital cream always tops looking like a hobo on the FML list, so keep the laughs to yourself, Chuckles. If I wasn’t all talk and no action, I would have pulled a Naomi and spread that vag cream all over his face, but alas, I will just vent my frustrations here. But if any of you happen to go to CVS on Broadway-Greenlawn Rd in Greenlawn, NY and happen to run into a tween-looking jerk named Henry with lots of pimples on his nose and frosted tips in his greasy hair, please make fun of him.

ALLLL ABOUT ME.

No, I am not actually a butcher and no, I could not think of a better title for this blog. Multiple times a day, I witness things that make me think, "am I high? What is going on?!" This blog is a way for me to share those tales, along with random rants I need to get out. Warning: There WILL be abrevs. There will NOT be that overly witty tone that bloggers all try to use. If you're not funny in real life, don't try to make it happen here.